Chapter 23 Feeling Occupied
Feeling Occupied
Geoff
Pee-Pee listens without interrupting, which is always unnerving because it means she’s loading ammunition.
I finish explaining the Sophia situation. The timing. The flat. The fact that I thought I was being honest and apparently wasn’t honest enough.
“I told her I needed to slow things down,” I say. “And she said she felt like I was already elsewhere. And she’s not entirely wrong.”
Pee-Pee nods, jotting something down. I hate that notebook. It knows too much.
“So,” I continue, shifting on the chair, “I’m thinking of giving dating a break for a bit.”
She looks up. “A break, or a retreat?”
“A break,” I say quickly. “A deliberate one.”
“Mmm.”
That noise again. The sceptical hum.
“I’m still doing the work,” I add. “Therapy. The physical side. I just don’t think it’s fair to keep dating when I feel like I’m handing out a disclaimer leaflet.”
She leans back slightly. “What would the leaflet say?”
I grimace. “May contain emotional landmines. Unreliable performance. Unexpected life entanglements.”
She smiles. “Catchy.”
“I just want to fix the… issue,” I say. “In another way. Without dragging women through it while I’m figuring myself out.”
She considers this for a moment.
“I don’t have a problem with you pausing dating,” she says. “In fact, I think it’s sensible.”
Relief hits fast. Too fast.
“But,” she adds, holding up a finger, “I do have a problem if you’re doing it to avoid being seen.”
I open my mouth. Close it again.
“I’m not hiding,” I say. “I’m recalibrating.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Those are very close cousins.”
I sigh. “Look, I’m tired. I’m tired of trying to explain myself before anyone’s even decided whether they like me.”
“That’s fair,” she says. “But tell me this: if your erectile dysfunction magically resolved tomorrow, would you still want to stop dating?”
I don’t answer straight away.
Not because it’s a trick question. Because for once, it isn’t.
“Yes,” I say eventually.
Pee-Pee blinks. Just once. Subtle, but I catch it.
“Yes?” she repeats.
“Yes,” I say again, firmer now. “Even if it all magically started working tomorrow, I’d still want to stop dating for a bit.”
She leans back in her chair. “Why?”
“Because I’ve got enough on my plate,” I say. “And, for the first time in a long time, it’s not all chaos.”
She waits but doesn't interrupt me.
“I’m really enjoying the teaching,” I add. “Like… properly enjoying it. Not as a hobby. Not as a distraction. I’m thinking about doing the training. The degree. Making it permanent.”
Her pen pauses mid-air.
“That’s a big shift,” she says.
“I know,” I reply. “Which is exactly why I don’t want to half-arse it while also trying to impress strangers over wine.”
She nods slowly. “Go on.”
“There’s Christa,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “And the baby. And my brothers. And for once, that feels like… enough. Not in a settling way. In a grounded way.”
She studies me. Not suspicious. Assessing.
“So this isn’t about running away from dating,” she says. “It’s about running towards something else.”
“That’s exactly it,” I say, relief creeping into my voice. “I don’t feel empty. I feel… occupied. In a good way.”
She smiles then. Not therapist-smug. Just warm.
“I like that answer,” she says. “It suggests you’re making decisions based on fullness rather than fear.”
I huff out a breath. “Does that mean I get a gold star?”
“No,” she says. “It means you get more responsibility.”
I groan. “I knew there’d be a catch.”
She leans forward. “If you’re stepping back from dating because your life is full, that’s healthy. But I’m going to hold you to something.”
Here we go.
“You don’t get to freeze,” she says. “You keep doing the work. On your body. On your identity. On what you want.”
“I will,” I say. And I mean it.
She nods, satisfied. “Good. Then I support the pause.”
That word again. Pause. Not stop. Not quit.
“And the issue with my di—penis?” I ask.
“We keep addressing it. But we stop treating it like the headline.”
I sit back, letting that sink in. “Can I ask you a question?” The words are out before I can think about them.
She nods straight away. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”
I hesitate, then give a small, self-conscious laugh. “I just want to make sure I’m reading something correctly. Or not over-reading it.”
“That’s a very reasonable thing to want,” she says.
I rub the back of my neck. “Last night. After everything with Sophia. Christa did this whole comfort thing. Crumpets. Hazelnut spread. An alarming amount of squirty cream.”
Her lips curve into a smile. “That sounds very on brand for her.”
“I laughed,” I say. “And for a moment it felt very… domestic. Easy. Like a relationship.”
I look up at her. “How do I know when something like that is still just friends and not me slipping into denial again?”
She doesn’t rush to answer. She never does.
“Let me ask you something,” she says gently. “Did either of you say it was a relationship?”
“No.”
“Did you make plans or promises?”
“No.”
“Did it feel like there was an expectation attached?”
I think about it. “No. It just felt… safe.”
She nods. “Then what you experienced was connection. Care. Intimacy in a moment that needed grounding.”
“That doesn’t automatically mean it’s more?”
“No,” she says. “It means you were comforted. And you let yourself receive it.”
I exhale slowly. “So I don’t need to panic.”
“No.”
“I don’t need to define it.”
“No.”
“And I don’t need to pull away just because it felt good.”
She meets my gaze. “Especially not that.”
I sit with that, feeling something loosen in my chest.
“You’re being thoughtful,” she adds. “You’re checking your motives instead of acting on impulse. That’s growth, Geoff.”
I huff a breath. “It doesn’t feel very impressive.”
“It rarely does when it’s real,” she says kindly. “Let moments be moments. You don’t have to categorise them immediately.”
I nod, a quiet sense of relief settling in.
“And what if I start to want more?” I ask. I keep my voice light, but my chest tightens anyway. “What if at some point this stops being… just moments?”
She doesn’t look alarmed. That helps.
“Then you notice it,” she says simply.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she repeats. “You don’t panic. You don’t suppress it. You don’t make pre-emptive decisions to protect everyone from a future that hasn’t arrived yet.”
I grimace. “I’m very good at pre-emptive decisions.”
“I know,” she says, smiling. “They’re usually about control, not care.”
I shift in my seat. “I don’t want to complicate her life. Or the baby. Or turn something supportive into something messy.”
“That’s a reasonable concern,” she says. “So let me ask you this: if you start wanting more, what would be the most respectful thing you could do?”
I think about it. Longer this time.
“Say something,” I admit. “Be honest. Not act on it quietly and hope it sorts itself out.”
She nods. “Exactly. Wanting more isn’t the problem. Avoiding the truth is.”
I let that land, staring at the edge of the rug.
“And until then?” I ask.
“Until then,” she says, “you stay where you are. Present. Curious. Not borrowing trouble from the future.”
I snort softly. “I do love borrowing trouble.”
“I know. We’re working on returning it to sender.”
That gets a small smile out of me.
“You’re allowed to care,” she adds. “You’re allowed to enjoy closeness. The line isn’t wanting more. The line is losing sight of what’s actually being offered in the moment.”
I nod again. Slower this time.
“So I don’t need to solve this now.”
“No,” she says. “You need to live it. Thoughtfully.”
I exhale long and hard.
For once, the idea of not knowing exactly where something is going doesn’t feel like a failure.
It feels like… space.
And, apparently, that’s allowed.